


Because Of A Snowy Day In March

by rowanscrown



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Grooming, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:58:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14901003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanscrown/pseuds/rowanscrown
Summary: They'd never spoken about what happened, what could have happened, and why it's still so utterly sad.





	Because Of A Snowy Day In March

Ivan’s first gift, if he thinks back far enough, hard enough, was making dinner.

Toris usually did this – almost always did this – and it startled him. Eduard hadn’t said a word, Raivis muttered in bed that night, “Why?”, and he’d shaken his head, shrugged his shoulders. If it was lost to them, it could be lost to him.

He hadn’t thought it was a gift, really. Because gifts are little things and big things. While little, and while not unheard of, it hadn’t struck him as something to cherish. You cherish things close to you, that make you feel warm. Ivan wasn’t always cold, wasn't always warm, and that sat in his stomach like a rock the rest of the night.

The second gift: flowers. Sunflowers sat on the mantle, though they died as quickly as they arrived. Crocus’ – lavender and early pink – spread in a wide vase on the table next to the phone, next to Ivan’s office. They always changed when they began to wilt; and, orchids, sometimes lilies, sometimes mountain arnica, in the kitchen, by the silk curtains, on the coffee table. That coffee table rested in the foyer and lead to he and his brothers’ room, and to Natalia’s. These flowers were always there. Ironically, they were the only things that continued living in Ivan’s house, beside Ivan himself.

Rue appeared. First bundled within the crocus’, hardly even noticed, then the orchids. Then the bouquets of lilies and Transvaal daisies. Always a different place, never at the same time. Then the sunflowers, peaking up under brown-green leaves, not unnoticed by him, because he wiped away the dust whenever he had the time. They were out-of-place, left a bad taste in the back of his throat. But, still, they reminded him of home, where his people were still fighting and dying on the streets, in the forest, the Gulag, Serbia.

It never quite settled with him.

He knew Ivan, known him since he was a child, and the third gift reminded him of back in the forest that day. When Ivan could hardly stand, the weak side of himself he'd tried to cast off but always showed the most behind doors. And was just changing from right to wrong, though never simply _wrong_. He’d let him into his office, if only for a mere moment that felt like hours, and spoke to him.

As soon as he stepped through the doorframe he knew he was seeing and feeling a part of Ivan no one saw. No one was allowed in his office. Phone numbers, hidden evidence that'd potentially reach international outrage, solutions under the Soviets that would surely draw his people out of rebellion. He stepped through, Ivan smiled, and something wiggled its way right through the crevice in his throat to the memory of Ivan as a bloodied child. And, Ivan knew it.

“You’re allowed in here always,” Ivan said, and he nodded, couldn’t bring himself to mutter, “sir”, as he should.

Fourth. Touch. Rarely anyone laid their hands on anyone inside the house. He made sure Raivis knew when to hug he and Eduard. Not a soul approached Natalia, who hardly displayed open affection towards her brother, Katya never. Gilbert only had his few moments but otherwise did nothing, said nothing when he could help it. It was strange to watch.

Those rare moments were made up of Raivis grabbing his hand when he’d been frightened of news, whenever heard news of their homes, and Gilbert trying to rile him up, yanking on his hair. Ivan never _touched_ , not really. Just a brush over he and his brothers’ shoulders, the time he and Ivan’s arms bumped into each other while looking through the bookshelf. Though, when the war ended, Ivan hugged him, out of relief or sadness, he didn’t know, because he’d heard Ivan crying in his room not an hour later.

Ivan grabbed, no, held his hand, if he remembers correctly, and laid it on the nape of his neck, beneath his scarf, where his rough bandages crossed over his throat, to the tip of his spine. They’d been alone, and drinking, admittedly, but he knew he’d grown worried if that had been a gift or not.

When he’d tried to pull his hand away, swallowing down an apology he knew he didn’t need to say – his people were begging through his head to never apologize – Ivan pressed his hand on top of his, coldly, strangely. Ivan didn’t say anything when Toris yanked his arm away seconds after.

Fifth. He has to think about this one, if it was a gift, if Ivan ever actually wanted something in return.

He let him leave.

Quietly. Slowly. His feet carried him at an agonizing pace at first. He left Ivan’s office, left the foyer’s wilting flowers, left his brothers, and didn’t come back. Ivan had held the knuckles of Toris’ fingers to his forehead when, and after, he’d told him he was free, as if he hadn’t known already, as if he hadn’t been leaving the entire time, as if Ivan knew neither of them were to blame.


End file.
